the everyman memoirs

There's nothing like a trio of girls kidnapped a decade ago being found in your city to put things into perspective. Not that it really matters in what city the girls are found, it's still just as effective at making your problems seem instantly minute. And that's what I've been thinking all day. That I'm so silly to spend time whining about the stressful things in my life. Because I do this. Whine. And vent. And occasionally shake my fist at the sky for all the things that seem unfair, the people I love who deal with things they shouldn't have to, the fact that I for some reason can't just be independently wealthy, or why it has to be so hard to get people to buy a damn book already.

But none of this matters, because instead of spend the last decade trapped in someone's basement, I've been living my life. So, I think I'm good. True that my living room floor is scattered with various pieces of my manuscript right now and I'm still not sure which direction I should go in terms of certain aspects of its chronology, but seriously, how is this a legitimate problem? Pssssh. Today, more than ever, it's clear to me. And I am definitely good.